Hilda, for her part, stood there, calm, watchful, and expectant. That slender and graceful figure, with its simple and elegant dress, which set off to the utmost the perfection of her form, looked certainly unlike the ungrown girl whom Lord Chetwynde had seen years before. Still more unlike was the face. Pale, with delicate, transparent skin, it was not so dark as that face which had dwelt in his memory. Her eyes did not seem so wild and staring as those of the imp whom he had married; but deep, dark, and strong in their gaze, as they looked back steadily into his. The hair was now no longer disordered, but enfolded in its dark, voluminous masses, so as to set off to the best advantage the well-shaped head, and slender, beautifully rounded neck. The one whom he remembered had been hideous; this one was beautiful. But the beauty that he saw was, nevertheless, hard, cold, and repellent. For Hilda, in her beauty and grace and intellectual subtilty, stood there watchful and vigilant, like a keen fencer on guard, waiting to see what the first spoken word might disclose; waiting to see what that grand lordly face, with its air of command, its repressed grief, its deep piercing eyes, might shadow forth. A singular meeting; but Lord Chetwynde seemed to think it natural enough, and after a few moments he remarked, in a quiet voice: "Lady Chetwynde, the morning-room will be more suitable for the interview which I wish, and, if you have no objection, we will go there." At the sound of these words a great revulsion took place in Hilda's feelings, and a sense of triumph succeeded to that intense anxiety which for so long a time had consumed her. The sound of that name by which he had addressed her had shown her at once that the worst part of this crisis had passed away. He had seen her. He had scrutinized her with those eyes which seemed to read her soul, and the end was that he had taken her for what she professed to be. He had called her "Lady Chetwynde!" After this what more was there which could excite fear? Was not her whole future now secured by the utterance of those two words? Yet Hilda's self-control was so perfect, and her vigilance so consummate, that no change whatever expressed in her face the immense revolution of feeling within her. Her eyes fell--that was all; and as she bowed her head silently, by that simple gesture which was at once natural and courteous, she effectually concealed her face; so that, even if there had been a change in its expression, it could not have been seen. Yet, after all, the triumph was but instantaneous. It passed away, and soon there came another feeling, vague, indefinable--a premonition of the future--a presentiment of gloom; and though the intensity of the suspense had passed, there still remained a dark anxiety and a fear which were unaccountable.